


An Optimistic Descent

by Grizzly_Northerner



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grizzly_Northerner/pseuds/Grizzly_Northerner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Morse just kind of ended up together. Jakes POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Optimistic Descent

It had all started off innocently enough. It had simply been a coincidence they were both looking for a place at the same time. It was also a coincidence that a two bedroom flat, far larger than normal, and only five minutes from work, all for a very reasonable price just so happened to become available the day they started looking. Some people would call it fate. Peter was not one of those people. He preferred to think of it as plain old, unassuming luck. Not that he would have ever thought he’d end up sharing with Morse, mind you. Even if he had grown on him in the two years they had worked together. And even if he had proved himself to be one of the few decent ones in the cesspool that made up the collective Oxfordshire police force (because a change in name didn’t mean jack if all the bastards were the same).

They were still two very different people after all. Peter was into modern music, and football, and pints after work with the lads. Morse was, well Morse. Opera, and work, and hard liquor seemingly alone for the most part. Yet somehow they’d ended up together. Again, some would call fate. Again, Peter would disagree, and roll his eyes, and probably conspire to take the piss behind their backs. This was, admittedly, not the greatest of traits, something he was working to rectify, but also something that the aforementioned cesspool required of a man to get by, and so which was rather ingrained. The ones who were integral, who retained a shred of decency, like Thursday, tended to languish far below their true paygrade.

But somehow it had happened, and thus had begun the slow but steady descent (or ascent depending on your level of optimism) into whatever the hell they were now. It had strolled far beyond the boundaries of friendship, and into the field of intimacy and exclusivity but it didn’t really have a name. They refused to give it that, or even really talk about it directly. Peter wasn’t sure if this reluctance was because to recognise it for what it was, was also to recognise that what they were doing was illegal (although not for much longer, Peter was counting down the days). At the very least would still be highly frowned upon in the force, and if certain people were to find out it would mean the end of their careers, if not worse (and if certain other people were to find out would earn them both a thorough beating, if not worse). It was either that or because anything involving Morse was always going to be unusual and slightly difficult, and they were both emotionally stunted individuals, with enough baggage between them already. It was probably more the latter.

For something that had evolved without much verbal recognition, it was perhaps ironic then it had started with something as innocuous as talking. After a few weeks living together Morse, ever the night owl and ever devoid of proper social etiquette, would sometimes wake Peter up and, perched on the edge of his bed, use him as a sounding board for his thought processes on cases. Peter, however annoyed at being woken, would listen because work was work, the cases needed solved, and Morse did have a proven track record so it would be practically selfish not too. Except sometimes became frequently, almost nightly in fact, and instead of sitting on bed, Morse would lie down next to him, making himself so at home he’d often forget to go back to his own room. Monologues became conversations, and evolved past work. Peter discovered Morse wasn’t just work and opera and crosswords, but, shockingly, a more rounded human being. One who shared Peters taste in bad detective novels, and who really liked films, even modern ones, and who missed his mother, and was still angry at his father for effectively abandoning him in favour of a woman whom he hated. In turn, Peter shared his secret love of theatre, particularly Shakespeare, and of cooking, and of his anger at having no family, and no support. He told him of how jealous he’d been when Morse first arrived because he’d spent years working flat out to move up the greasy pole, only to be pipped by an arrogant college boy, and how wrong he’d been, and sorry he was for making it so difficult.

It was during one of these nights, when Morse was telling him about his failed engagement no less, that Peter’s brain decided it was the very best time to tell someone he was gay, something he’d kept secret for a damned good reason. Something which he’d apparently decided a colleague with whom he had a history of clashing with, and who also just so happened to be a policeman, was the best person to tell. So when Morse didn’t so much as flinch but instead just nodded in acceptance, and asked him if he’d ever been close to someone, he may have actually cried. It wasn’t very dignified but Morse kept on doing a fantastic job of not judging. And for the record, no he hadn’t been with anyone, well anyone he’d actually wanted. Working hard to climb the police ranks meant some risks weren’t worth taking. Or so he’d keep telling himself.

Nothing happened immediately. A few weeks went by following the same routine as before. Peter had felt so ashamed for so many years that he was just happy that someone would be willing to so much as remain in the same room as him, and so any other feelings that may have developed went ignored. It was also clear from talking to him, or even just to anyone in the same room as Morse and an attractive woman, where his interests lay, and he didn’t want to ruin what they did have trying to find out otherwise. However, Morse plus alcohol had very different ideas. After a heavy night for the both of them down the pub, and a few more measures of whisky for Morse at home, they’d stumbled into bed as per usual but instead of talking, which was probably beyond both of them at that point anyway, Morse had decided to try other things. _Try_ being the operative word, because beside a few errant kisses and a wandering hand, it wasn’t exactly satisfying. Morse fell asleep long before that point, something Peter found equal part funny, equal part frustrating.

He did make up for it in the morning though. Peter had woken up and made it as far as kitchen, feeling upset at being used, and because it probably meant the end of their friendship, and it hadn’t even been that _good_. He’d been sat at the table bitterly eating toast, when a surprisingly sober Morse appeared from nowhere, wrapped his arms around Peter’s shoulders, pulled him into a kiss, and dragged him back to bed. At the end of it the only thing Peter had to feel annoyed about was Morse’s apparent immunity to hangovers, and that, judging by the things he could do with his mouth, he probably wasn’t the first bloke he’d been with, which just didn’t seem fair considering Peter was the social one. However he came across to the outside world, Morse had a weird underlying confidence that served him well.

Not long after that Morse effectively moved into Peter’s room, in so far as they stopped pretending he hadn’t already. However, most of his stuff stayed in his old room, and the bed made up; it doesn’t take two detectives to work out that if two people share a bedroom, they’re probably sleeping together. They started ‘sharing’ chores, which ended up meaning Peter cooking for both of them, and doing most of the cleaning, and paying the bills while Morse would occasionally iron their shirts for work (and which Peter would invariably have to redo anyway). Morse had always been a bit of a freeloader when it came to things he didn’t like doing. He did start buying Peter pints in the pub though, and would make him a coffee every morning, which was something he supposed.

Peter wasn’t sure when other people started to clock on. Well he says other people, so far it seemed to just be the Thursdays and Strange. And Max because of course Max bloody knew. He was Morse ramped up to eleven, and had them figured with a nothing more than a cocked eyebrow and an obscure quote which Morse seemed to take as confirmation. At least he hoped it was just them. He had been paranoid that he and Morse would give off some sort of weird vibe, but as time passed and they didn’t get fired, and no rumours seemed to spread around the station, he relaxed.

Thursday had it figured out quite quickly, probably because Morse started turning up to work well fed and rested, and because they were only at each other throats some of time instead of all. The whole Morse actually buying rounds in thing was probably a hint too. To be honest, Peter would have been more worried if he, a detective inspector, couldn’t figure out what was going on with the two people he spent 80% of his work life with. Thursday was direct, giving them a stern lecture on keeping it secret, and how he wanted no overspill but one that seemed to be more out of concern than anything else. He didn’t seem to mind otherwise; when Morse got too involved in case he’d ask Peter to make sure he was okay, and he’d actually ask if Peter was okay when this happened, which was odd yet heartening. They got joint invites to the pub, and then to the Thursdays for dinner, which turned into something of a regular occurrence. There was even a night where Thursday had stayed at their flat after a fight with Mrs. Thursday, and he was perfectly happy taking up residence in Morse’s room while they shared. There was never really a verbal recognition of them as a couple, but it was pretty clear everyone, themselves included, accepted that they were.

Joan had worked it out even before Thursday. She was her father’s daughter after all, sharp as a razor. She and Peter often ended up in the same pub together with workmates, and sometimes Morse would tag along too. It was probably one of those nights when she worked it out. Morse had come back from bar, commenting on how she’d been funny with him, and for the rest of the night whenever he looked over he was sure he caught her staring. Not too long after that, she’d turned up at their flat, conveniently at a time when Morse had been out with Thursday on a case, and had it out with Peter. On one hand he could kind of understand it. He had led her on in the past, and he knew she had a thing for Morse, but on the other he was angry because it didn’t really have anything to do with her. They’d ended up having a raging argument, and she’d stormed off, and Peter had been terrified that she would tell someone, or force Thursday to do something about them. However, she turned up again not two hours later with an apology, and bottle of scotch (definitely her father’s daughter). This time round they drank and talked, and Peter ended up spilling up everything about him and Morse and more, somethings he’d never said to him, and somethings he didn’t even realise he needed to say. In turn she lamented how boring her life was, and how all there seemed to look forward to was to be somebodies wife, and now the one person whose wife she wouldn’t have minded being was no longer on the table. It was a real turning point for them, and though they hadn’t been great friends to begin with, if anything by the end of the evening they knew too much about one another to be anything but. He didn’t think Morse was too impressed to come back and find them both passed out drunk, but he didn’t say anything about it, and took care of their hungover, sorry selves without question.

They soon fell into a routine. He would see Joan when Morse was at choir practise, and they would both go to his concert nights, and, for his sake, pretend to be interested. The three of them would also meet up two or three nights a week for a drink either at the pub or at their flat. Strange would sometimes join them too. He wasn’t sure how Strange had found out. He’d cornered them both in the nick one day, out of the blue, and promised to quash anything he heard, and if they ever needed anything they were only to ask. A guilty conscious after Blenheim Vale, Morse supposed. Peter thought it was more genuine, and highly suspected it was Morse himself who had helped Strange figure it out anyway. After a tense return to the station, he and Morse had become quite good friends again. If Joan was his confidant, Strange was Morse’s, albeit with a deserved dose of scepticism on the latter’s part. Regardless of how he found out, he proved to be a good friend. He would warn them if they sat a little too close together in public, or if their hands lingered a little too long, but at the same time turned a blind eye when they were in in the safety of their own home.

Peter couldn’t help but feel he’d lucked out friend wise. This time last year he’d been stuck in a cycle of pretence and self-loathing, hanging out with people he didn’t really like, and talking about things he defiantly didn’t like doing or cared about. Now he had people who knew him inside out and didn’t mind. He had good friends, and a boss who had his back, and was in a relationship with a man whom he loved. He was almost happy. Almost because of the last bit. Because a consequence of being in a relationship where neither of the participants were keen on communication, was that little things like actually confirming you loved one another were surprisingly difficult. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sure, he’d known since that first morning together. However, up until this point it had been fairly wordless process. The precedent had been set, and he guessed neither of them had had the mind to break it yet. Peter would talk to Joan about them, he was sure Morse talked to Strange. Thursday would occasionally offer words of wisdom, and Mrs. Thursday would gush about how good it was they’d ‘found’ each other (or more likely that Morse had found anyone, Peter doubted he registered without Morse), and they’d take it in in silent acceptance. They’d talk about anything and everything else between them. If one of them were angry or upset at something external then it was fair game, but it seemed everything to do with the actual relationship was mostly silent. Morse didn’t ask to move rooms, he just did it. If they were on the sofa Peter wouldn’t ask to rest his head on Morse’s shoulder, and likewise if Morse couldn’t sleep, which was a frequent occurrence, it was just a given that he’d bury himself into Peters chest, while the latter would wrap an arm around him, and stroke his hair until sleep finally came.

It wasn’t that there was no communication. It was a relationship after all, there was still the issue of consent. It was usually a case of one of them initiating something and the other deciding how far they wanted to go. Say if one of them didn’t want sex, then a shake of the head, or gently pushing away the other was usually enough for them to get the idea. Most things had norms they’d devised over time. They would ask each other how they felt in a general manner, and sometimes _hint_ at something deeper but it wasn’t really enough to cover the complexities. Maybe they were just lucky. Maybe their relationship was just that healthy, and because many of the big decisions couples might make were sorted, like living together, or impossible, like marriage and kids, that they didn’t need to talk. Maybe it came back to them being emotionally stunted idiots. That sounded more like it. It was something that needed to be resolved though. It didn’t bode well if they couldn’t even get the basics down.

Peter had figured it would be have to be up to him to sort it out. Getting anything to do with emotion, that was not in the form of an opera, out of Morse was like drawing blood from a stone, and because communication between them left much to be desired anyway he wasn’t even sure if Morse was on the same page. He did briefly consider taking singing lessons and serenading him, he was sure Morse would have loved the drama of it, but even if he could sing secret lessons were out. Opera was only ever tolerable when Morse was in the same room; he’d light up in a way which was worth Peter’s ears bleeding.

It didn’t help either this revelation coincided with a really difficult case. Another one like the opera psycho, where free time was none existent, and every second counted, and Morse was pushing himself to breaking point. Peter wasn’t sure if was the best or worst possible timing to try and push it. It wasn’t relevant to the case, but might be enough to keep Morse from going over the edge. Peter knew that it was exactly the kind of thing he wanted to hear when he was stressed, or upset, or well, actually just in general. He couldn’t remember a time when anyone had told him they loved him, but imagined it was a good feeling.

As it happened, the case ended abruptly, before Peter had decided on the best plan of action, leaving them with a mountain of paperwork, and long nights in the office ahead. Also, as it happened, it was taken out of Peter hands in the form of a note placed in said mountain on his desk. An unassuming note, with ‘ _I love_ you’ scrawled in messy handwriting, that had caused Peter’s eyebrows to shoot up in confusion as he tried to reconcile it with the case, before putting two and two together. A quick look over at Morse’s desk confirmed it, where the constable was waiting for his reaction, and doing a piss poor job of trying to look busy and nonplussed in the process. Apparently he was a mind reader. Peter’s face twitched into that really annoying smirk that happened whenever someone did something remotely nice for him, and that was nearly impossible to suppress, something that he definitely wanted to do because this was kind of out of order. Not because he wasn’t happy to know this, because he most definitely was. Hell, it was exactly what he wanted hear. And that was what it was. He wanted to _hear_ it. With his ears. And Morse had cheated, and found a way around it and Peter was slightly peeved. And also because it was at work of all places. He must have succeeded in getting rid of the smirk, and done a damn good job too, because the next time their eyes met Morse didn’t look happy, he looked concerned and upset. Really upset. Peter felt terrible. Especially, as before he had the chance to respond, he was sent away onto the next case, leaving Morse to deal with the paper work. Criminals were so inconsiderate. The more Peter thought about it, the worse he felt. It wasn’t Morse’s fault. He wasn’t really a bloody mind reader after all, how was he meant to know Peter was so against notes all of a sudden. It’s not like they’d had much time at home either recently. What was he meant to do, announce it to a room full of police officers? Fuck.

That night Peter ended up lying in the dark, unable to sleep, listening out for any noise that might be Morse returning. He hadn’t had the chance to go back to the office, and had the feeling they’d both been festering in this misunderstanding all day. It wouldn’t be the first time Morse was this late back. He was still prone to long nights in the office, even without the paperwork, and they both would, on occasion, end up in the pub unexpectedly, without chance to tell the other. When one o’clock came and went, kicking out time, Peter began to worry properly. He wouldn’t have blamed him for going to the pub and drowning his sorrows, but didn’t like the idea of Morse wandering about on his own at this time of night, and in god knows what state. If he had ended up with someone trustworthy, like Thursday or Strange or Max they’d surely have had the decency to at least let him know?

As it turned out he didn’t have to wait long. Half one came, and so did, by the sounds of it, a drunk Morse. He stumbled into the bedroom remarkably quietly. Peter could hear the soft thud of clothes being discarded onto the floor, before the man himself collapsed on the bed, on top of the covers. He could smell the whisky on him. A few minutes passed, and he made no attempt to get comfortable despite shivering. Peter acted on autopilot, moving the covers from under him before pulling them around his shoulders. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Morse had gotten a lot better in recent months but he still teetered on the edge of alcohol dependency, and if a case was particularly stressful, he was prone to ending the day with copious amounts of spirits. Usually by this point he’d be out of it, or as good as. However, this time he was still awake, and even though he was lying motionless, there was no real attempt to pretend otherwise. His breathing was laboured, Peter could have sworn he was trying not to cry. He paused, and grazed his thumb down the other man’s arm. The way he curled away from him, burying his head into the pillow, confirmed it. As did the gentle sobbing. Peter may well have gone the whole hog and stolen sweets from babies the way today had been going. Morse never cried. Hs eyes would water sure, if he angry, or upset, but never actually cry. That was more Peter’s thing, Morse was far too stoic.

Peter moved closer, and positioned himself in a way that allowed him to move his hand through Morse’s hair. It seemed to calm him down when he was agitated, so hopefully the same would be true here. And it worked. Kind of. While the sobbing didn’t stop completely, it did somewhat subside, and after a while Morse turned to nuzzle his head under Peters chin, allowing him easier access in the process. Peter ceased on the opportunity.

“I love you too”, spoken more to the room more than anything else. He’d say it was a weight off his shoulders but if anything it caused Morse to shift further on to his chest. It did feel good though, and was actually surprisingly simple. Like ‘why on earth was it such a big deal in the first place’ simple. Another few minutes passed in silence. Peter, spurred on by the no longer crying Morse, sought out his hand in the dark and entwined their fingers.

“You have to say it too.” Peter could practically feel Morse’s frown. “It’s only fair.” Morse turned in what Peter guessed was an attempt to look up at him, though their positioning and the dark made it hard to tell.

“I love you.” That smirk again, this time welcome. Peter squeezed his hand, and sought out his lips, a difficult task when you can’t really see anything. It took a couple of attempts to get right, hardly the stuff of films, but neither of them cared. They relaxed into one another, and before long Morse was asleep. They weren’t there yet,

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what the summary is, or what this is to be honest. I wrote it because there so little of Endeavour out there. It's wordy, and I don't know what happened to the time frame but at least it's something to fall back on when all the good ones have been read. I want to write more but I'm working full time atm so may be difficult. Any comments/criticism would be much appreciated. :)


End file.
